Caféstuck
by Kilameida
Summary: Where the kids and the trolls and everyone else lets go of all their personal and interpersonal problems and take a sip of hot coffee in Andrew Hussie's Café Homestuck. What, conflicts? Chill, it's just a series of one-shots that happens in the same Café! Just sit back, and... enjoy.


Wow, have I been gone away from a long time.

Anyways, this is a café where everyone chillax and take a sip of coffee or faygo or whatever. The key to this AU is that status quo is god, and everyone just relaxes and have no problems. Feel free to re-use this AU, just warn me. Also, this AU is highly crossoverable.

Disclaimer: I don't own this, the man with the great lips (AKA Andrew Hussie) does.

Another thing that I'd like to mention: There will not be any redrom here. Blackrom maybe, but status quo is god, like I said, and I will not have my characters be more awkward interacting with each other. Again, this is where you throw away all your troubles and just have fun watching the kids be extremely good friends. Although from time to time I can write non-canon offshoots where there ARE red feelings. Your reviews are my gold, by the way.

I cannot promise regular update, but I'll try to do it every day!

Now go on, take a cup of coffee!

* * *

There are two boys walking, side by side, on an empty street.

The night is still young, and despite the darkness and chilly winds you can still see the sun far, far away casting a brilliant orange glow over the city. The streets are three colors: gray, black, and orange where the puddles catch light off the fading sunset and reflect it into the lenses of both boys.

One of them becomes dark orange, the other remains clear.

Neither said anything.

The hammer pummeled the last nail into the wood. The sound echoed briefly through the empty streets before the wind carried it away.

The man holding the hammer smiled. He leaned back slightly and stared proudly at his sign.

"There we go," he muttered, and wiped the sweat off his brows.

The new sign was complete. Oaken wood hung proudly over a glass roof, framed with green metal bars, supporting fluorescent lights that didn't do much, but somehow made the darkness outside the windows thicker. The tables and chairs were clean smooth wood, supported by legs that are black and white in a crisscross pattern, but faded, just enough to blend in with café's twilight mood just enough to see the entire room properly but dark enough to take solace in it.

Something crashed, and then something _else_ cracked. The hammer fell.

The floor went _glink_.

The man slumped down. Building this café from scratch was terribly hard work, the rent wasn't cheap, and he had to revamp all the damn furniture with substitutes from his own house. He looked around and tried not to cry as he took in all the horse furniture and paintings that decorated the café. "All mine," he sadly murmured. But that's fine, because at least business will be successful –

A phone rang in the background.

The man cursed. He knew whom it was from. He wanted to hide, but if he did, that would warrant a visit from THEM –

He dragged – not walked, dragged himself through the floor, over the counter, and into a fetal slump under the table bar where he curled up into a tiny ball of quivering nerves.

If he answered, the only thing that he would have received is a man saying that he's already there. He'd rather not have that.

For the rest of the afternoon, he quivered until he heard the small bell heralding the arrival of visitors ring.

John and Dave walked in and took a look around.

"Wow."

"This isn't as bad as I thought it'd be."

"PLEEEEAAAASSSEEEE DON'T KIIILLLL MEEEEEE!"

The last one came from over the counter.

Both boys dropped their bags and rushed towards the source of the sound. They saw a man, lightly tanned, round head, short, mangled and messy hair, and… and… and the most _distinguishing _pair of lips they'd ever seen their lives.

Whatever response they might have had to this pitiful man's plight stuffed itself in their voice boxes and stared in wonder at the massive pairs of lips in the skies, or in this case, the man's face.

The man however appeared to unwind immediately as he saw the boys. He breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness!" the man said. "You're not the… um…"

His speech faltered under the stares of the two boys. "So… maybe you are… sent by… them?"

"By who?" said the one with clear glasses automatically – as if he didn't even think about it, like he was distracted by something. The man with the lips wondered what the boy was distracted by and what the hell was he staring at. Nevertheless, the answer gave him a much-needed assurance that they were not sent by one of the gangs, and the man breathed in a sigh of relief.

"Ah. Customers," he said, in a matter of fact tone.

The other boy nodded curtly. It must have been his sunglasses that allowed him to resist the lip's magical allure, unlike the other boy whom was perfectly content to stare the man's lips as if he expected them to detach and do magic tricks. Of course, he sometimes bumped into things in the night, but he'd never admit it to anyone else.

"Quick drink and maybe some snacks, old man," he muttered, just loud enough so that the man could hear him. The man in question swallowed. He knew this boy's type. The cool type; snarky, quiet, and those whom tried to be badass under any time and any circumstance. Who else would wear sunglasses at night? These type of boys are trouble…

"Excuse me?"

This time, it was the other boy, the one with the clear lenses and the shirt with a monster on it.

"We'll take… um... that is, I'll take water, maybe that fudge cake and – "

"Lemonade."

This time it was the boy with sunglasses. He held out his hand. Inside, rested several crumpled bills adding up to roughly around $5.

"For me and my friend. My treat tonight."

The man stared at the bills. His first earnings.

The boy with sunglasses grabbed his friend by the back of his shirt and dragged him to a table, pulled a chair behind him and then sat down, hard. There was a creaking sound that echoed slightly. "Now c'mon, Egderp, we're doing homework NOW."

The man with the lips said, "Um? You're not bullyi-"

The bully in question already raised a hand in response.

"I'm the one helping him; this idiot who failed the math quiz. Again. For the third re-quiz –"

His friend struggled against the vice grip of the hand on his jacket while trying to turn around to cover his captor's mouth–

"Dave, I just missed a few questions I can normally do – "

"Shut up, it's all because you fell asleep after that Nicolas motherfuckin' Cage marathon on HBO – "

"But I already studied before – "

"Studying ain't gonna do you shit if you keep dozing off and slobbering your answers with your drool, now c'mere, you. You're gonna stop doing remedial classes and wasting my time, cuz by tomorrow this poor John is gonna ace the quiz OR ELSE - "

But by that time, the man had already gone to the back, into the kitchen.

By the time the fudge cake was finished, the two boys had started their lessons, somewhat violently in the dim light.

"NO JOHN – Look, you forgot to carry the ONE, you derp – yes, THERE we go, 413 + 612 = 1025 and that's where you got the entire x2+16x-1025 wrong, the speed of the second car is 41 km/h and most definitely NOT Hella Jeff's face, no matter how much you flatter me."

The bartender was burdened by the weight of the lemonade, fudge cake, and the glass of water all on a tray, and it was probably a testament to his balance, poker face (or simply his unmoving lips) and his speed. He managed to avoid the lightning fast swing of John's arm grabbing, or more accurately, scything, the bottle out of the tray. He felt warm air sizzling from friction of John's passage, and despite the completely unexpected assault on the tray he managed to not spill any lemonade or drop the fudge cake. He watched, somewhat affronted, somewhat amused, but mostly happy that his customer drank with such enthusiasm, ripping the cap off and sucking on the bottle – not drank, but sucked, like a baby would a pacifier.

When the bottle reached the halfway mark, Dave swiped the bottle off John's mouth and motioned for the man to set the tray down and join them.

The man politely declined, but he set the tray down anyways.

"Bartender!" Dave barked.

"Y-yes?"

"You got a name?"

"It's… it's Hussie."

"Who's the owner of this joint?" asks Dave, somewhat thoughtfully. Across him, John happily munched down on a piece of chocolate fudge cake. He seemed to be somewhat relieved to be released from the hell that is mathematics.

The owner of the joint brought himself up to his full height.

"Well, I don't merely _own_ this joint…" but stopped, before he could finish his rant.

"You the owner? No waiters?" said Dave. He's yet to touch his lemonade, instead cutting a small piece of John's cake away.

"They're… they're not here yet," said Hussie, miserably. "They're starting tomorrow or whenever we get more customers…"

"Well lemme tell you pops, this place is pretty dingy, you're not gonna grab much customers like this. Maybe make it brighter, more attracting, you already got the basics down – good location, and excellent food, John, stop hoggin' the cake all to yourself –"

"Sorry," John said, spattering crumbs all over the little table. "It's just excellent, sir – you have an excellent cook, maybe Dad would like to talk to him someday."

"It's a she," Hussie said absent-mindedly. Well yes, ideally it would be much more flashy instead of looking so run-down, but how was he supposed to tell boys about his debt and everything… he sighed. Well, it's hard being a café owner and nobody understands.

Meanwhile, Dave toyed around with his lemonade. He stirred around the foggy yellow liquid with the straw, and stared at it moodily. "Hey Bar- Mr. Hussie?" he suddenly asked.

"Hm?"

"Don't you got some music here?"

"Ah, about that," said Hussie somewhat hesitantly, "This is the first day opening, and I don't think that our regular stuff is coming just yet, so – "

"Mind if I jam here once in a while? I'll bring my friends."

The offer stopped Hussie mid-reply. Of course he could use a musician, and the boy in front of him looked pretty chill and cool, but he's practically broke.

"About that… you see…"

Dave took a sip from the glass of lemonade.

Hussie wouldn't have been such an excellent bartender and an even better negotiator - at least when it comes to borrowing money out of suspect, corrupt mafia groups- if he wasn't able see a little way to the future. He managed to drop to his knees just in time to dodge the spray of lemonade that flew out of Dave's mouth. John had less luck.

"BLUH – Bartender!" Dave barked. "Did you make this thing out of piss or what?"

_How dare you not like this definitely not fake lemonade that is most definitely squeezed from fresh, cold lemons straight from the freezer. I shall make your life a misery and wish that you have never insulted my lemon making skills. I will create a new circle of hell special for you lemon defilers, where you will forever eat gummy cakes made out of piss, shaving cream, and ribbed condoms._

Somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the words became:

"Eeep. I am so sorry sir. It is not to your liking?"

"I was…" he coughed. "I was saying, I'll jam here for free, as long as you never serve anyone that god-awful piss thing you call a lemonade. I'll prolly bring my friends too, and god forbid, this derp here for more remedials."

Hussie remained silent. Dave paid no heed, instead passing John a napkin.

"Sorry bout that," he muttered. "Well, we're going. It's well past eight, and we'd better get home before nine. "

The two kids packed up their bags and walked out of the door.

The echo of the tiny bell remained for a little while.

That was two days ago.

_AN: Yes, the first chapter still feels like shit to me, but this shit is necessary to lay groundwork to the later chapters. I'm so sorry for this one. _


End file.
